published in Bina January 23, 2011

Title: A Gap in the Tapestry

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Byline: As told to Debbie Shapiro

I stared at the piece of paper in my hands. The square-shaped bigger than life head, the small body, the tiny hands and feet, replete with fingers and toes — a normal ultrasound for a ten-week-old fetus. The technician wished me "B'shaah tovah" as she handed the print to me with a big smile. And although I smiled back at her, inside, I cringed in pain.

The story really began over ten years before, when, without any connection to a pregnancy, I developed massive bilateral pulmonary emboli, a life threatening condition where both lungs became clogged with hundreds of blood clots, any one of which could prove fatal. I spent over a month in the hospital, almost blind thanks to a clot lodged in an eye muscle, and too weak to even sit up in bed. Despite the doctors' dire prognosis, I survived and returned to my vibrant self; the doctors called me a walking miracle. Less than a year and a half later, I married my husband, and in the next several years, b'chasdei Hashem, I succeeded in delivering three healthy babies without complications.

So when, shortly after realizing that I was expecting our fourth child, I developed enormous blood clots that covered the bottom half of both legs — hard, finger-size swellings that were extremely painful — I immediately called my gynecologist. He, of course, instructed me to head straight to the nearest emergency room.

At the hospital, the doctors were barely able to hide their shock. They had never seen anything like this before. The head of the internal medicine department was called in and I was placed on a heparin pump and instructed not to get off the bed. By now, however, the pain had become so intense that standing was not even a possibility.

Over the next week, it seemed as if every specialist who had anything to do with the hospital came to look at my legs and give an opinion. Although the blood clots were extremely painful, they were not dangerous. They were, however, a sign that something about my pregnancy hormones was causing my blood to clot, and although the problem was presently contained to my superficial veins, if a clot were to develop in one of the larger, deeper veins, there would be a real danger that pieces could break off and fly up into my lungs, brain or heart and kill me.

The morning of the ultrasound, the heads of the department had entered my room and, with extremely grave expressions on their faces, questioned me as to exactly how far along I was in my pregnancy. Before leaving the room, they instructed the nurse to send me for an ultrasound to confirm my calculations.

I intuitively understood that the doctors were going to recommend that I terminate this pregnancy, that I abort this precious life that I held within me. I immediately phoned my husband and asked him to discuss my condition with our rav, Rav Moshe Halberstam, zt"l. "Please make sure the rav understands," I said, "that I am willing to do whatever is necessary to have this baby — even if it means spending the next six months in bed. But I am also aware of the dangers, and if he paskens otherwise, I will accept it wholeheartedly."

I began giving myself a silent mussar schmooze. Of course I knew that my life takes precedence over that of my unborn child's, and that as a G-d fearing woman it is my obligation to follow the Rav's instructions. Obedience to daas Torah is a measure of one's yiras Shamayim. My seichal understood that if the Rav were to instruct me to abort the baby, then that was what I would have to do; it would be just as min haShamayim as if it were to happen naturally, and therefore I must never allow myself to feel guilt for terminating a potential life in such a case.

But still, I questioned how I would be able to live with myself afterwards, and I was angry at myself for allowing my emotions to contradict my intellect. It was difficult for me to bridge the vast distance between my brain — my intellectual understanding — and my heart — my emotional reactions.

As I fingered the picture of my unborn baby, I felt the tears well in my eyes. I wanted to place the picture in a safe place, so that in the future I could look back and remember this precious little neshamah that I was carrying so close to my heart. But I realized that I was being foolish and forced myself to crush the paper into a tiny ball and throw it into the nearest trashcan.

Back in my room, an acquaintance stopped in to visit me and, in a rush of emotion, I told her what was going on. "My husband is speaking with the Rav now," I concluded.

Her reaction floored me. Instead of urging me to listen to daas Torah, she gave me a whole drashah on "emunah and bitachon," stating that the mere fact that I had asked such a shaylah showed a lack of emunah. Instead, she argued, I should simply place my trust in Hashem that He will keep me healthy and help me to deliver a healthy baby. As I listened to her passionate speech, I kept on repeating to myself that it was the voice of my yetzer hara speaking. Oh, how I wanted to believe her, to just have "emunah" and trust that everything would work out. But I also knew that true emunah is bowing my will to daas Torah — asking a shaylah and obeying the Rav's psak.

While my friend was still in the midst of delivering her speech (and I was quietly telling myself not to listen to her), four doctors entered my room and requested that she leave. Even before she had a chance to close the door behind her, one of the doctors said, "Your life is in danger. We have no choice but to terminate the pregnancy."

When I told them that my husband was presently discussing the situation with Rav Halberstam, zt"l, the head of the department left the room to phone the Rav. Less than twenty minutes later, an orderly brought me to the doctor's private office, where Rav Halberstam was waiting on the phone to speak with me.

The Rav asked what I thought about the whole situation. I responded that as things stood now, I was in a lot of pain but not really in danger; but that I did realize that if the condition were to spread to my deep veins, it could be life-threatening. "I'll do whatever is necessary to save this pregnancy," I continued. "But I also realize that if the Rav paskens otherwise, then that, too, is min Hashamayim." With those last words, I felt the tears trickling down my cheek.

The rav explained that although his first concern was for my life and according to the information the doctors gave him, I would probably have to abort the baby, he wanted to discuss the situation with a specialist in the United States before giving his final psak. Meanwhile, he instructed me to remember that whatever happens if for the best and to try to remain b'simchah.

Baruch Hashem, I did not have the nisayon of terminating the pregnancy. The specialist felt that there was no immediate danger to my life. He felt that I should return home on what was then a new, experimental medication: low-molecular weight heparin. He instructed me that other than taking a one-hour brisk walk each day, I was to remain flat on my back with my feet elevated above heart level. In my hyper-coagulative state, standing or sitting, which causes the blood to pool, could cause me to form new blood clots. Brisk walking, on the other hand, increases the blood flow and prevents new blood clots from forming.

The next few months were spent in bed — except for my daily one-hour brisk walk. Seminary girls came each afternoon to help with the children and housework, organizations sent in readymade meals, and I tried my best to walk where no one would see me! It was extremely embarrassing to be on the receiving end of so much chessed and then be seen looking the picture of good health as I power-walked around the neighborhood. I truly hoped that if anyone noticed me they would judge me favorably.

Then, in my sixth month of pregnancy, the unthinkable happened. I developed a DVT (deep vein thrombosa), a blood clot in one of my main veins. There was a real danger that a piece of the clot could break off and travel into my lungs, a potentially life-threatening condition, and I was immediately hospitalized.

I spent the next six weeks in the high-risk pregnancy ward, flat on my back, receiving intravenous heparin. Although my life was in danger, the pregnancy was completely normal. Finally, just a few days before Purim, the doctors decided that the situation was stable and sent me home with instructions to remain in bed with my feet elevated above heart level until it was time to deliver the baby.

I was so excited to return home to my family. Neighbors had sent over a beautiful Purim seudah, the house was immaculate, and it was wonderful to finally sleep in my own bed! But despite the euphoria, something didn't seem right. It took a while until I realized what it was — I wasn't feeling my baby.

I was petrified, but I kept on telling myself that I must be overreacting. After all, before I was discharged from the hospital, I had gone for an ultrasound and monitor, and everything had appeared perfect. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing more than the excitement of returning home.

But when I still didn’t feel the baby by the next day, I returned to the hospital to make sure that everything really was all right. The nurse listened to the heartbeat and reassured me that the baby sounded fine. I was ready to return home, grateful that my fears were nothing more than a figment of my imagination, but according to hospital protocol I couldn't be released without an ultrasound.

It took several hours until I was finally called me in for the ultrasound. At first, the technician reassured me that everything looked fine, but that she couldn't discharge me until the baby made some movement. After waiting ten minutes, she gave me a few cubes of chocolate to eat, but still, nothing. Then she placed a loud, buzzing machine next to my stomach — again, nothing. Finally, she called in a senior doctor.

After that, everything happened very fast. I remember being transferred to a hospital bed, and that there were several people standing around me — helping me into a hospital gown, placing a monitor around me, inserting an intravenous line into my arm. On the monitor, the line for the baby's heart was completely flat. Yes, the heart was beating, but it was a steady 160, without wavering up or down, a sign of severe fetal distress. Without warning, I suddenly felt a painful stinging sensation in my upper arm. "We just gave you a shot to help the baby's lung's develop," the nurse explained.

Someone handed me a form to sign, agreeing to an emergency C-section. Within minutes an anesthesiologist appeared to administer an epidural anesthetic. Stunned and petrified, I was rushed through the long hospital corridors and into the operating room.

All I remember of the operating room was that it was freezing cold. I couldn't stop shaking as the doctors began the surgery to remove my child. Just before the final incision, the anesthesiologist administered something to put me to sleep, and the next thing I remember was waking up in a large room surrounded by many beeping machines, with my husband at my side. He looked exhausted and worried.

"How's the baby?" was my first question.

He didn't know.

"Is it a boy? A girl?" I continued.

"A girl." His voice was flat.

"Did you get a chance see her?" I asked.

He told me that he had managed to catch a peek of our newborn baby girl as they whisked her away to the PICU. "She was on a respirator," he said quietly. "She looked very, very sick."

"Please find out how she's doing."

My husband went to the nurse's station. From my bed, I watched as he spoke to the woman at the desk and then slowly return to my side "She said that she'll call the PICU and get back to us as soon as she has some information," he said.

Sometime later, the nurse appeared at my bedside. She had a box of tissues in her hands. I knew what she was going to say. Yet, even as she said the words, "Your baby passed away a few minutes ago," I felt a searing, wrenching pain, it was as if I was being physically torn in half. I was overwhelmed with a sense of emptiness, of loss, and no words could comfort me.

It's funny how, at times like this, everything we've ever learned about emunah comes rushing back to us, an anchor to keep us from falling into the depths. "I know that this was min Hashamayim," I kept on repeating to my husband, "and I know that this baby had to come down to this world for a tikkun, and that, b'ezras Hashem, after 120 years I'll be together with this baby in the Next World. But still, although I know that everything that happens is for the good, the pain was excruciating; it was beyond anything I have ever experienced." And I wished — oh, how I wished — that I could have seen my daughter at least one time before she was taken away from me, had some fleeting memory of the precious little neshamalah that I had given birth to.

Even as I lay there, feeling the enormous waves of pain wash over me, I was amazed at another emotion that kept bubbling to the surface: gratitude. I was so grateful that I had been able to carry this baby to the eighth month, and that I had merited to give her the gift of life, even if it was only for a few short hours. "It was all worth it," I said. "Everything, the months in bed, the pain, the surgery, to enable this neshamah to do her tikkun." Even as I said these words, I was amazed at my own capacity to feel such contradicting emotions.

That baby was my youngest child. Although this story happened almost eighteen years ago, the pain — the black hole of emptiness — still exists. It will never disappear. Eighteen years ago, it was raw and fresh. It overwhelmed me, filling up my entire being and dominating my life. Today, it's a small gap in a rich tapestry, barely noticeable, definitely not a blemish, but an integral part of the entire picture, providing another dimension of texture and depth.

STILLNESS OF NIGHT PUBLISHED OU.ORG

January 09, 2011 
Stillness of the Night 
By Debbie Shapiro

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I love my city. It calls to me; beckons to me. And because I love it so much and am so curious about its history, I decided to enroll in an intense one year course sponsored by Beth Jacob Seminary in conjunction with the Jerusalem Municipality, to become a Jerusalem tour guide.

And that is how I found myself, on an icy cold January evening, standing on a windswept mountain with twenty five other women, most at least twenty years younger than myself, our necks tilted upwards, gazing at the stars. Our guide pointed out the different stars (kochvei shevet, "sitting stars," because they remain in the same place in relationship to each other) and planets (kochvei lechet, "traveling stars" because they move across the sky) and then let us view Jupiter with a telescope. Yes, I managed to find three its four moons.

Afterwards, he taught us how to find the North Star, so that if we ever find ourselves lost in the streets of Jerusalem late at night, we'll know how to find our way home – although to me, Jerusalem is, and always will be, home, and if do find myself lost in its sometimes confusing circular streets, I'll ask someone where I am, or, worse comes to worse, flag down a taxi.

"Over there," he began, pointing with his laser beam to a group of stars in the north-east sky, "is the great shopping cart in the sky."

Huh?

"See, there's the basket. Underneath it, you can see the handle."

What's it called in English?" I asked, I wondered how I could have lived in Israel for over thirty eight years without ever hearing about the great shopping cart in the sky (maybe that's why my food bills are always so astronomical).

"Soup ladle; an upside down soup ladle."

It took me a couple of seconds to translate that into the Big Dipper.

"Make an imaginary line between the two stars of the shopping cart's handle," our guide explained, using his laser beam to make it crystal clear. "The line points straight to the North Star; it's five times the distance between the two stars that make up the shopping cart's handle."

My neck was beginning to hurt from staring up into the sky for so long.

Our guide then pointed out the Cassiopeia constellation, "the Big W in the sky." "The middle star always points directly to the Northern Star," he explained. Simple and easy; how could I possibly miss it? The sparkling lights seemed to jump out at me, and I wondered why I never noticed these things before.

The following evening, as I was taking my evening power walk up and down the streets of my inner-city neighborhood, I found myself staring up at the stars, trying to find the constellations that seemed so obvious to me the previous night when they had almost screamed their presence.

But I couldn't find any of them. Not the M, nor the big shopping cart, not even the northern star. They were obscured by the pulsating lights of Jerusalem. The exquisite points of light that disrupted the inky emptiness were now blurred into a fuzzy oneness.

I will probably never again climb a windswept mountain at midnight to gaze at the stars over Jerusalem. But now, at least, I know they exist. I know there are realities that remain constant, and that never change, but that they can become obscured by the pulsating lights that continually surround me. And at least I have their memory.

Debbie Shapiro is a widely published author and a longtime Jerusalem resident. Her latest book, Women Talk, is a compilation of interviews with great Jewish women -- and all Jewish women are great! To read more of her articles or contact her for speaking engagements, please visit her blogspot,Debbie Shapiro of Jerusalem

And now, you can join women from all over the world and share in an experience of a lifetime that will rejuvenate your mind and re-energize your soul. Discover, celebrate and study while enjoying an unforgettable journey February 13-22 with OU L'Ayla's Mission to Israel

to the woman from Lakewood who sent me a note about Shattered

Could you please email me? debbieshapiroofjerusalem@gmail.com

Debbie

A trip up North published in Binah

Some Things Never Change

---A Trip to the Galilee

By Debbie Shapiro

When Azamra Seminary in Beit Shemesh invited me to join their girls on a two day trip to the north of Israel, I was excited at the thought of getting away for a couple of days and spending time in parts of Israel that I hadn't seen since my own seminary days, some thirty-nine years ago (gulp). But when they told me that Rebbetzin Heller would be coming with us to provide insights into the kivrei tzaddikim, well, the word "thrilled" would be an understatement. Although I'm no stranger to the mekomos hatzaddikim – after all, they're just a bus ride away -- I never really learned about the tzaddikim's lives and how standing at their graves should impact my tefillos.

Monday morning I joined Yona and Rebbetzin Heller in a taxi that took us to the the Beit Shemesh highway, where we boarded the bus with the rest of the group. By ten thirty, we had arrived at the kever of Rabi Meir Baal Haness and his wife, Bruria.

There's something about the exquisite pristine beauty of Eretz Yisrael that causes the tears to well in my eyes. Yes, the world is full of majesty and splendor, but the beauty of Eretz Yisrael is different, for I know that these Hashem Himself granted these precious mountains and valleys to us as a holy nachala, a yerusha forever, and therefore spiritual connection is deep and all encompassing. The large imposing building housing the tomb of Rabi Meir Baal Haness is located halfway up a mountain overlooking the Kinneret. The combination of shimmering blue water reflecting the towering mountains leaves one breathless.

Sitting on the steps outside the kever, Rebbetzin Heller spoke about the inherent holiness of Eretz Yisrael and why we travel to the kivrei tzaddikim. She explained that Hashem wants us to attach ourselves to the tzaddik's merit since the tzaddikim are yesodei olam, foundations of the world. Just as a building needs a foundation to remain steady, we need the stability of attaching ourselves to the tzaddik's kedusha to keep ourselves from toppling. Although tzaddikim led very real lives – they ate and drank, and faced plenty of challenges -- they were successful in finding Hashem within all these mundane activities.

Since the Maharal explains that the more we identify with the tzaddik, the greater our sense of attachment, Rebbetzin Heller told us a little bit about Rabi Meir's life and the kochos that he exemplified. He was one of the main codifiers of the Mishna; whenever a Mishna is quoted without a name, we assume that Rabi Meir Baal Haness was the speaker.

The Tanaim and Amoraim lived in the time of gzeiros shmad, when the Romans ruled Eretz Yisrael and decreed that it was forbidden to keep Torah and mitzvos, which is the reason so many of them moved to the rugged and mountainous Galil, far from probing Roman eyes. After the Romans executed Rabi Meir's father-in-law Rabi Chananiah ben Teradyon –one of the ten martyrs – and his wife for teaching Torah, they imprisoned their daughter, Rabi Meir's sister-in-law. Rabi Meir tried to bribe the guard to release her, but the guard was afraid that when his supervisor would discover that the girl was missing, he would have him executed. Rabi Meir told him to take half the money for himself, and use the other half to bribe the officials.

"But what will happen when I don't have anymore money to bribe the supervisor?" the guard asked.

Rabi Meir told him to recite the words, "Elokai d'Meir aneini," "G-d of Meir, answer me," and he would be saved.

"But how can I be sure that these words will really save me?" asked the guard.

Rabi Meir walked toward a pack of man-eating dogs that threatened to tear him apart. Then he cried, "Elokai d'Meir, aneini," and the dogs turned around and left him alone.

The guard was convinced that he'd be saved and released Rabi Meir's sister-in-law.

Although at first the guard was able to bribe his supervisor, eventually the money was used up and the guard was arrested and sentenced to death by hanging. But when the rope was tied around his neck, he cried out, "Elokai d'Meir, aneini," and, to everyone's amazement, the rope tore and he was saved.

"This Roman soldier had no merit," explained Rebbetzin Heller. "Yet, because he attached himself to the tzaddik – held on to someone much greater than himself – he evoked Rabi Meir's merit –'Elokai d'Meir aneini,' 'G-d of Meir, answer me,' and experienced a miracle.  Just as he had full trust in Rabi Meir's promise (otherwise he would have never endangered his life like that!) we have to believe that Hashem is all-powerful and can turn around a seemingly hopeless situation. We can daven and evoke Hashem's mercy; we can plead for the seemingly impossible, because it is within Hashem's power to give it to us. There is no such thing as despair."

As I stood in front of Rabi Meir's kever, davening to find a solution for a seemingly irresolvable problem, I, too, was infused with renewed hope. After all, if a Roman soldier could be saved through simple emuna, then there's hope for me as well.

After leaving Rabi Meir Baal Haness, we passed by the gravesites of Moshe Rabbeinu's wife, Tziporah; sister, Miriam; and mother, Yocheved, as well as Rabi Akiva's wife, Rochel. Rebbetzin Heller pointed out that whereas with the other graves in the Galil, we know their location from either a chain of tradition or through the Ari z"l's ruach hakodesh, the sites of these graves were determined according to a dream, and therefore cannot be verified.

Our next stop was banana boating on the Kineret. For the uninitiated, banana boating is somewhat akin to water skiing; a speed boat pulls a long banana-like tube through the water, while the passengers – who sit on the tube horseback-riding style -  hold on for dear life!  Until recently, the bananas were made in such a way that they would almost inevitably turn over, dumping their screaming (life jacket encased) passengers into the cold water. For obvious reasons, the government passed a law that the boats had to be built so that no matter how bumpy the ride, they would remain upright in the water.

Don't get me wrong; I love fun and, for a woman who passed the forty five year old mark over a decade ago, I'm really quite adventurous. But somehow, the idea of banana boating seemed, well, s-c-a-r-y. Rebbetzin Heller, however, thought otherwise. On the bus ride from Beit Shemesh to Tiveria, as she told me about the joy of holding on for dear life as the boat plunged through the waves, falling off into the icy-cold water (before the new law!) and then somehow climbing back on to the slippery tube, my first reaction was NEVER! But after I saw her enthusiasm and anticipation, I changed my mind. After all, if she could do it, then why can't I?

As I gingerly made my way down the stony slope to the shore, I felt my excitement growing. Bubby was really going banana boating – my einikalach will be so proud of me! But – whew!--  it was not meant to be. All the boats were filled to capacity, and I ended up sitting on the "tornado" the term that very aptly describes the speed boat that pulls the banana. So yes, this bubby had no bananas (that really tells my age!) but I did have a tornado, and that was scary enough for me! And yes, Rebbetzin Heller joined the other girls on the banana, and they all had a fabulous time doing it – while I enjoyed every moment sitting at the water's edge, watching the boat twirl through the waves. 

Our next stop was at the kvarim of Rambam and the Shlah Hakodesh in Tiveria. Rebbetzin Heller told us how the Rambam had led a very difficult life. Exiled from Spain, he fled to Egypt where he became the official leader of the Jewish community. In addition to his responsibilities to his brethren, he was forced to become Sultan Saladin's personal physician. In the evening, after returning home exhausted from his duties to both the Jewish community and the Sultan, he would see the many patients who were waiting for him. Only then, in the late hours of the night, would he finally sit down to write his seforim. Yet, despite his heavy schedule, he succeeded in writing the encyclopedic Mishneh Torah and the Guide to the Perplexed, among others. From this we learn that although we cannot control the challenges that Hashem gives us, when it comes to ruchniyus, it is within our ability to reach the greatest heights. "When you daven," Rebbetzin Heller concluded, "let the Rambam be your example of someone who accomplished despite incredible odds, and aim for the heights."

From the Rambam and the Shlah Hakodesh, we drove to the top of Mt. Arbel, which soars to more than 181 meters above sea level. Standing upon its cliffs, we could see the Golan, the Kinneret and even Har Chermon! Under Roman rule, a small settlement of Jews lived on this mountain top, where the remains of an ancient synagogue were discovered. The settlement's most famous resident was Rabi Nitai Ha'arbeli, who said, "Keep far from an evil neighbor and do not associate with the wicked, and do not abandon belief in retribution" (Pirkei Avos 1:7) (footnote: Artscroll translation).

 

While our guide, Yona, led the girls – and Rebbetzin Heller – down the steep path to the bottom of the cliff, a hike which is rated by the nature authorities as "l'miteivei lechet," "for excellent walkers," (one category that I do not fit into!) I took the bus to the meeting point, where I enjoyed communing with a herd of goats and strolling along a meandering stream, a quiet interlude of peace and tranquility on a very busy day! 

 

[picture: Shortly before we arrived on Mt. Arbel, a car drove off the cliff. This is the medic, who had just returned from rescuing the driver, who sustained several broken bones.]

From Mt. Arbel we continued on to Chatzor, to the tomb of Choni Hamaagal. During a draught in Eretz Yisrael, the chachamim asked Choni Hamaagel to pray for rain. Choni drew a circle, stood inside of it and proclaimed, "Ribono shel Olam! I swear that I will not move from here until you have mercy on your children and send a good and blessed rain." The Chachamim were upset with Choni. What chutzpah! How could he, so to speak, force Hashem to send rain? Choni explained that he is similar to a son in his Father's house, and a son can request whatever he wants. "When we daven," concluded the Rebbetzin, "we are like children coming to our Father and we should ask Him for whatever we need."  

At supper that evening, Rebbetzin Heller spoke about Parshas Noach. "The flood was the worst catastrophe to ever take place. It was absolute destruction; nothing was left. How do you think Noach was able to continue after that?"

The answer, of course, is emuna. But then she pointed out the difference between Moshe Rabbeinu and Noach's emuna. When Hashem told Noach that He is about to destroy the world, Noach accepts that as Hashem's Will. But when Hashem told Moshe Rabbeinu that He was going to destroy the Jewish People, Moshe Rabbeinu extended himself to the point of self sacrifice to annul that decree. "It's up to each of us to do our hishtadlus," she explained, "yet, at the same time, we have to understand that the world will unfold according to Hashem's Will."

The girls asked questions about what is the proper measure of hishtadlus and how to prioritize. "How do we know where to focus our emotional and physical energy?" one girl asked. The Rebbetzin explained that we should focus on the things that will still be important five years from now. "Yes, some things are urgent, and they must to be taken care of, and sometimes they must be taken care of immediately, but don't waste too much mental energy on that. Stick to the important things."

Later on, I joined the girls for a kumsitz. Sitting in a circle in the candle-lit lounge, singing slow songs of dveikus and yearning, I almost felt as though I had gone back in time thirty-nine years to my own sem year at Machon Sara Schneirer -- except that I didn't know any of the songs! But the room was dark, so I just hummed along and enjoyed every moment of the achdus and harmony.

The following day was spent davening in Meiron, touring a winery, hiking down a river and then up a waterfall, and dancing on a boat as it circled the Kinneret. The day also brought home to me just how much I have changed. As young as I may sometimes feel, I'm far from being the agile, surefooted girl that I was at age eighteen. One difficult hike alongside a river was enough to teach me that I should stick to the straight and even asphalt. But although I slipped in the rushing waters, and needed several helping hands to climb down a ravine, I was amazed at the girls' patience when my snail paced hiking kept them from rushing ahead to greater and more exciting adventures. And so, while I have definitely changed over the years, some things—such as good middos – will always remain the same, and that's what is really important.

A COMPLETE HEALING

A Complete Healing

By Debbie Shapiro

The following story is true. Names and identifying details were changed for the sake of privacy.

It was an icy-cold winter evening. The streets were dark and deserted and covered with snow. The snow had piled into huge mounds that covered the gutters and blocked the sidewalks, keeping all but the most determined residents of Yerushalayim confined to the warmth and safety of their own homes. No one -- except, perhaps, for a few children who were excited at the rare opportunity to build an igloo or snowman -- would venture out in such conditions. According to the newspapers, Yerushalayim hadn't been hit by such a fierce storm in over fifty years.

My husband and I wrapped ourselves in layers of sweaters and heavy wool stockings before setting out to speak with Rabbi Yisrael Yaakov Fisher, the beloved sage of Yerushalayim's Beis Din, Rabbinical Court.

Our family had been going through an extremely difficult time. A few weeks before, my mother, may she live and be well, was hospitalized for a minor surgical procedure. To our distress, she ended up with blood poisoning. To make things even more complicated, the Israeli doctors had never encountered the specific germ that was causing the infection, and therefore had no idea which antibiotics they should use to combat it. So she was, as one doctor termed it, "bombed with every type of antibiotic available.” He hoped one of them would work.

There is usually a long line of people waiting to speak with Rabbi Fisher. Much to our delight, we were the only ones to have braved the inclement weather. The Rav was able to give us his undivided attention.

My husband waited for me in the anteroom while I entered the rabbi's study. After hearing the details of my mother's strange illness, Rabbi Fisher asked for my mother’s name, the names of both her parents, and my father's name. He carefully wrote the names on a small sheet of paper and then spent a few minutes making calculations and drawing an elaborate diagram.

"The names are fine. There's no problem there," he finally said.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  Rabbi Fisher was famous for his unique ability to check combinations of names and their inherent spiritual qualities to see if they are compatible. In kabalistic tradition, a name defines the essence of a person. Frequently, couples on the verge of a divorce would come to ask his advice on how to repair their marriage and end up leaving his study with new identities.  Amazingly enough, this name change would often bring about a radical change in their shalom bayis, domestic harmony.

But if the names weren't causing the problem, then what was?

I waited for the great sage to continue, but he remained silent, deep in thought. Suddenly, he threw me a sharp glance before looking down at the list of names again. "Do you have a grievance against your mother?" he asked slowly.

I did not answer immediately; I could not answer immediately. I realized that I was trembling.

My father passed away when I was an infant. Until I turned five, my mother was what is known today as a "single parent." I remember that we were very poor. In addition to single-handedly raising her four small children, my mother worked full time to afford the bare necessities. As an adult, I realize that it must have been very difficult for her, but I remember her always smiling and singing, although she was probably crying inside.

Despite her loneliness and our lack of financial resources, I had a wonderful childhood, at least until my fifth birthday. Although my mother worked during the day, she devoted the evenings to her four children. I have vague memories of summer picnics in the park and long cozy bedtime stories while snuggling under the heavy down quilt that kept us warm in our chilly Yerushalayim apartment. I realized that we were different from other families, but nevertheless I felt secure in my mother's love and was happy with the way things were.

All that changed, however, on my fifth birthday. My mother married a young widower who had five small children of his own. Suddenly her love had to be divided among nine young children who were constantly clamoring for attention. I felt there wasn't enough left over for me.

Since I was the youngest of our new, large, "blended" family, and therefore the most vulnerable, I became the object of much unpleasant teasing, and on more than one occasion, physical attacks. As an adult, I realize that my older "siblings" were just children trying to cope with a major change in their own lives. But at the time, I was devastated.

To make matters worse, we moved from the cozy apartment that I loved -- but that was too small for our blended family -- into a spacious, unfriendly two-story house. I was even forced to share a bedroom with a stranger who took great pleasure in hitting me when no one was looking! I couldn't understand why my mother had done this to me. Why did she have to remarry? Everything was just fine before.

My mother often tells a story about those first difficult years, when we were struggling to become one family. It was the day of my kindergarten's Purim party. My father (yes, today I call him my father -- after all, he's the only father I know) was in the middle of eating breakfast before leaving to work. Flushed with excitement, I raced down the stairs and into the kitchen to show my mother how beautiful I looked in my Queen Esther outfit.

My father took one look at me and with a quizzical look on his face, he turned to my mother. "Rebbetzin," he said (for some reason he always called my mother Rebbetzin), "you didn't tell me that we're having such important company this morning. If I had known, I would have worn my hat and tie."

I stopped in my tracks and threw my father a scornful look. Then, I tiptoed to my mother and whispered in her ear, "Mommy, did you hear what he just said? I told you that he is stupid. He doesn't even realize that it's really me and not Queen Esther! Why in the world did you marry such an idiot?"

By the time I was ready to marry and start building my own home, we had become one family. In addition to raising the two blended families, my mother was kept very busy taking care of the new "common factor" -- my younger brothers and sisters.

It's funny how childish emotions can get in the way of what we know to be true. Of course, my mother's remarriage was for everyone's good. I feel very close to my stepfather, and the bond between the two families has become so strong that at times I actually forget who are my “real” siblings, and who are just "steps."

I hate to think what might have happened had my mother never remarried. Most probably, she would have become a tired, bitter woman instead of the vibrant and busy wife, mother and grandmother that she is today.

Although I realized she had done the right thing in rebuilding her life, I still harbored anger. Deep within myself, I was five-years-old and forced to share my beloved mother with strangers. Logically, it made no sense. But the grievance was still there, pressing painfully against my heart.

I didn't tell Rabbi Fisher the entire story. I just answered, "Yes, I am harboring a grievance toward my mother."

The sage threw me a quick, penetrating look. It felt as if his eyes were boring into my soul. "Are you willing to let go of that grievance for your mother's recovery?" he gently asked.

I had to pause and think for a few moments. Could I really let go of something that ran so deep? Could I overcome my childish emotions?

My eyes were brimming with tears. I quickly looked away. Finally, in a choked voice, I told the rabbi that I could. I knew that I had no choice. I would have to let go of that grievance. I would have to find the courage to forgive and move on.

Rabbi Fisher quickly stood up and told me that he was going to call in a beis din, an impromptu court comprised of three rabbis. I was petrified. Would I have to tell them everything?

The actual hataras nedarim -- the formal renunciation of a past vow or, in this case, a grievance -- took just a few seconds. When it was over, Rabbi Fisher smiled and said, "Your mother will have a refuah sheleima, a complete recovery."

As I left the rabbi's study, my emotions were in turmoil. My husband was waiting for me in the outer hall, and together we started trudging through the thick snow. Despite the heavy clothing that was weighing me down, I felt light, as though a stone had been lifted off my heart. I knew that although I had come to ask Rabbi Fisher to pray for my mother's recovery, I had also been cured. I felt free, like a bird, ready to wing its way to new heights.

That same evening, the laboratory succeeded in identifying the germ that was causing my mother’s infection. Armed with that information, the head of the infectious diseases department was able to determine which antibiotics would be most effective. Within a few days, my mother was discharged from the hospital. After a few months of rest, she returned to her former vibrant self.

* * *

Rabbi Yisrael Yaakov Fisher passed away the following morning. The Jews of Yerushalayim were stunned and mourned the loss of their beloved sage. Despite the heavy snow, thousands of people braved the weather to accompany Rabbi Fisher on his final journey.

When my husband and I heard the news, we were, of course, shocked. But at the same time, we were extremely grateful to have been one of the last to benefit from Rabbi Yisrael Fisher’s incredible wisdom. May his memory be for a blessing.

Shadows of the Past Published in Binah December 20, 2010

Shadows of the Past

As told to Debbie Shapiro

It's not easy to carry a secret inside of your heart, yet, I carried my secret for over forty years. I tried not to let if affect me, but as I later learned, it was silently impacting my life. The traumatic event that I tried so hard to forget haunted my life, looming like an ominous clould, shading my every move.

By the time I was almost thirteen, my older siblings had all married, and only my older brother, Steve (who almost seventeen at the time,) and I were living at home. We had a lot in common – we were both pudgy, with glasses, freckles and buck teeth. I was a prolific reader, and would let my imagination run wild as I dived into the world of fantasy. Steve loved science, was an amateur ham radio operator, and in his spare time, puttered around the basement building strange contraptions that were supposed to be useful, but rarely were.

I remember lying in bed one night, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep. I thought it was my imagination – perhaps I had read too many scary mystery novels – but I heard strange scraping sounds and muffled yells coming from the basement below me, where Steve slept. I was petrified. Was there a robber inside the house? Was the bogey man doing something terrible to my brother? Although I wanted to run to my parents, to tell them of my fears, I felt foolish. After all, I was almost a teenager, and much too mature to let a silly nightmare frighten me. I tried reasoning with myself, to calm my pounding heart, and somehow managed to convince myself that the creaking, scratching sounds, and the strange, guttural noises were nothing more than our old house settling in for the night. The noises finally stopped, and when all was quiet, I fell asleep.

The next morning, I was so exhausted that my mother had to literally pull me out of bed. I really wanted to remain securely cocooned in my warm, fleecy blankets. I was afraid that the strange noises would return. Looking back, I realize that although I didn't want to admit it to myself then, deep inside of me I knew the source of those noises.

My mother looked impatiently at her watch and told me to run downstairs to get Steve out of bed. "But Mom," I lied, "he's up already. I heard him brushing his teeth." I couldn't go downstairs to face the source of my nightmare.

Ten minutes later, my mom asked me again to go downstairs. She was getting upset; if he didn't hurry, he'd be late to school. This time, I had no excuse. And besides, the sane, reasonable part of me told me that I was being silly. So although I was petrified, I yelled Steve's name from the top of the stairs. When he didn't answer, I forced myself to go down the stairs to wake him up.

That's where I found him. At the bottom of the steps. Dead. Mutilated.

After that, time seemed to go in slow motion. My mind was racing as I ran up the steps. How could I break the news to my parents? What could I say to calm them? Somehow, I felt that I was responsible to protect them, to make it easier for them. I ran into the kitchen and found my parents sitting at the table, reading the paper while drinking their morning cups of coffee. In a voice that wasn't my own – oh, how I wanted to sound calm, but I couldn't – I screamed, "Call the police. Steve's…"

I didn't finish the sentence; I couldn't get that last word out. My parents raced downstairs and I ran after them. My father was the first one to see my brother. He quickly turned around and grabbed my mother, to protect her from viewing his mutilated body. For me, however, it was too late.

After that, I have no idea what happened. It's a huge blank. I have no memory of my father calling the police, or of the police coming to our home. As much as I've tried to put the pieces of that day together, I can't. The only other thing that I do remember is that sometime shortly after we discovered my brother's body, my mother told me to run over to our next door neighbor to tell him that Steve was dead. The neighbor had spent a lot of time with my brother, helping him with his experiments and teaching him all kinds of interesting tricks. When the neighbor's wife opened the door, I blurted out the news. I remember feeling strange – how do you tell someone something like that? Was I supposed to sound casual, as though this was an everyday occurrence? She looked at me in shock, and then went inside to call her husband to the door. But he wasn't home. We later learned that he was an escaped convict, a serial murderer who preyed on teenage boys. I know that there was a trial, and I also know that he was acquitted. But other than that, I don't really know what happened. My parents never discussed it with me.

My next memory is of the following day, the day of the funeral. I have no idea how I got there, but I was at my brother-in-law's parents' house. Their three teenage daughters were busy trying to decide what dress was most appropriate to wear. "I hope my mascara doesn't run," said one. "Try this eye liner" said the other. I felt strange; I wanted to cry and scream, but no one else seemed sad or upset. They were behaving as if they were getting ready for an interesting outing, rather than going to the funeral of a young man – my brother! – whose life had so abruptly come to an end. Instead of allowing myself to mourn and feel the pain, I made some inane comment about my dress being wrinkled and squeezed into the back seat of the car, together with the other girls. As we drove to the funeral home, I stared out the window at the rainy streets, and felt as if I was in a reality warp. People were walking back and forth, talking and enjoying life, while I was the strange one, out of sync with everyone else. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was my brother's mutilated body. I wanted to cry and scream; instead, I stared at the passing scenery and occasionally made a vain attempt at participating in the light banter going on around me.

No one cried at the funeral. Really, not a single person shed a tear. Everyone sat stony faced, as the rabbi spoke and recited some Tehillim in English. After my father recited Kaddish in a strange, husky voice, I was whisked back to the house while the other, older members of the family accompanied my brother on his final journey.

Although we had a very strong sense of Jewish identity, my family was far from being Orthodox, so we did not sit shivah. That afternoon, there was what I can only describe as a cocktail party in honor of my brother's death. Everyone stood around making small talk, while skirting the reason for our being together. Sometimes, after making a few jokes, sharing recipes, or talking business, one of the adults would sigh and say something about how we have to go on – after all, we're Jews, and Jews believe in life. My brother's name was never mentioned.

That was it. That was the last time I ever heard of my brother. For forty-five years – forty-five years! – his name has never been mentioned. It was as if he never existed, as if the memory was so painful that all my family could do was bury it deep in the ground, together with him. All our pain, all our love, all our emotions, were shoved into an iron box and securely sealed, never to be opened again.

I have very fragmented memories of the years following my brother's death. The first few days, after he died, I complained of nightmares; our family physician prescribed sleeping pills. No one bothered to ask me about my dreams, or how I was feeling. As strange as this must seem in today's world, where people seek professional help for every little problem, no one thought of sending me for therapy. It just wasn't done. This was the mid-sixties, and in those days people thought that psychological counseling was for the crazies. So we forced ourselves to "be strong," to smile and act normally. But that was exactly what it was; a huge act, a total farce. Inside, we were screaming in agony.

My brother was killed on the fifth day of Tishrei. I returned to school the day after his funeral. We lived in a small, Italian, working class enclave, surrounded by inner city slums. All the kids in my neighborhood attended the local Catholic high school – I remember watching them as they left their homes en masse, dressed in their plaid, pleated skirts and matching v-necked sweaters. But I attended a public inner-city junior high school. Other than a German girl named Heidi, I was the only white girl, and of course, the only Jewish girl. When I entered the classroom and quietly took my seat at the back of the room, I heard whispering and saw several heads turn. A few kids snickered and laughed, they were probably happy that another Jew was dead, but no one said a word to me about what had happened. The teacher smiled and said, "Glad to see you back," without mentioning my loss. At that moment, I realized that the subject of death, especially my brother's sudden, painful death, was taboo.

One memory that stands out in my mind is when my father asked me to go together with him when he hauled my brother's belongings to the nearest dump. He was extremely angry and drove very fast. When the freeway forked into two different directions, he found himself in the wrong lane and when he realized his mistake, tried to turn around to go back into the proper lane. The car spun out of control and we came within inches of crashing head on into the huge concrete pillar dividing the freeway. At that moment, I squeezed my eyes tightly closed and whispered, "Shema Yisrael…" I was sure that I was going to die, and I wanted to die as a Jew. After that, I remember feeling slightly embarrassed at my surge of religiosity, and confused as to its source.

Shortly after that, our family moved to a totally different neighborhood, this time, a Jewish neighborhood. My parents escaped into alcohol. Their evenings were spent at the local bar. When my father pulled the car into the driveway at night, he was often so drunk that he couldn't possibly get up the stairs – even with my help – and he'd end up sleeping on an old couch in the basement. My mother stopped cooking and cleaning; every night we ate out at a different restaurant, and lived in total chaos. Yet, every Sunday, when my sister and her husband would come for a family brunch, somehow we managed to gloss everything over so that it would appear normal. Once again, we were the happy, picture-perfect family and our house was full of laughter and light. But even as I played the game, I realized that it was nothing but a farce. Our home was not bursting with happiness. It was a dark, dreary place, full of dusty cobwebs and unspoken fears. I was living a dual life; on the outside, I was a normal teenager, talking with her friends on the phone half the night about absolutely nothing, but on the inside, I was miserable and confused, and bursting with unasked questions.

Fast forward forty something years. I had become religious, was happily married, a mother and grandmother of a large, growing family, and held down a great job – the epitome of the frum success story. Although I had suffered several life-threatening illnesses, baruch Hashem I was now basically healthy. I had also put on a few extra pounds with each successive pregnancy, and now I was much more than what we might kindly call pleasantly plump. When I started having problems with my sugar and cholesterol, I did some research into the dangers of obesity and realized that I had better lose the excess weight before I become another statistic. I made losing the weight a top priority

I joined our health insurance's weekly obesity clinic. Monday mornings were devoted to weigh-ins, and consultations with the clinic's dietician, psychologist and physician. Each week we had an hour long meeting, led by either a nurse, a dietician or a psychologist, where we learned about the different aspects of getting down to and maintaining a normal weight. The program was a lot of work, and it took a lot of time that I really couldn't spare, but I was motivated to attain my goal of a healthy weight.

In one session, the psychologist talked about how childhood experiences impact our lives. After a short introduction, she dimmed the lights, put on quiet, soothing music, and led us through a guided imagery exercise where we went back into time and experienced a negative incident from our pasts. At the beginning of the exercise, I found myself balking; that was one place I did not want to go! So even as I forced myself to focus on how I felt when the kids in grammer school taunted me with calls of "buck-tooth beaver," (thank G-d for orthodontists!) my mind kept on wandering to the day of Steve's death, and each time it did, I  forced it back to the less traumatic incident.

After we shared our experiences, the psychologist spoke to us about the impact of childhood trauma on our daily health. "It's important to go back to them, relive them and reframe them. The unconscious is very powerful, and if we don't resolve these issues, they can have a very negative impact on our entire life. They can even cause us to become sick or to engage in self-destructive behavior, such as overeating. Usually, when we view these incidents again, through the eyes of an adult, we see that they are not as bad as we thought they were."

Humph, I thought, if she were to know my secret… “not as bad as we thought they were,” she said…. On the very few occasions that I had shared this story with a friend, the resultant look of horror made me wish that I hadn't.

But the psychologist's words continued to haunt me… if we don't resolve these issues, they can have a very negative impact on our entire life. They can even cause us to become sick or to engage in self-destructive behavior, such as overeating. I felt like a hypocrite. Here I was putting so much time, energy and money into losing weight so that I could maintain my fragile health, yet, I balked at the idea of facing an issue which was quite possibly the source of my health problems. I decided to make an appointment with the clinic's psychologist.

The following Monday morning, I entered the psychologist's office. I wondered how I was going to break the news to her that the confident, successful woman that she knew, the one who always seemed so normal and on top of things, was really insane; after all, I was positive that the minute I'd tell her my story, she'd look at me as if I were some lunatic. After all, what type of person can be normal after lying in bed, listening to her brother being murdered? And who, in their right mind, talks about wrinkles in her skirt while getting ready to go to a funeral?

Yet, as I related the entire story, including some more graphic parts that I chose not to share with the reader, her expression remained passive and professional – as if hearing about young men being murdered was something she did on a regular basis! When I asked her if such a trauma could have serious repercussions on my health, she responded with a resounding yes. She suggested that I use guided imagery to relive the event with a psychologist.

That evening, my husband and I had a long talk. It had always bothered me that whenever I began to get emotional, I would somehow put a cap on it. I envied the women in shul who could daven so fervently, the tears coursing down their cheeks. As much as I tried, I always felt as though I was standing on the outside, observing, without really feeling – almost as though I was afraid of actually feeling something. I had no doubt that this, too, was a result of what had happened to me so many, many years before. My husband was proud that I was finally willing to face the bogeyman head on. He also felt that instead of speaking with the clinic's non-religious psychologist, I should see someone frum. Although it was much more expensive, he felt that it would be a good investment. He certainly didn't want a non-religious therapist delving into the depths of my soul.

What can I tell you? The first time I walked into the therapist's office, I felt like a real nutcase. Me, who everyone knew as responsible, and clear-thinking, seeing a shrink? But Mrs. E. was warm and accepting, and in no way made me feel that I was crazy. On several occasions she expressed her amazement that I had succeeded in living such a normal, productive life despite my background. As I faced my past, I discovered that it was not nearly as painful as studiously avoiding it. And after several sessions, for the first time in my life I was able to truly cry for a young man's life that was so tragically snuffed out before he had a chance to truly live.

Why do I feel that it is important for people to hear this story? Many of us are carrying baggage from the past that is relentlessly weighing us down and not allowing us to grow to our full potential. Without our even realizing it, that part of us is bubbling beneath the surface, impacting us in ways that we can't even understand. Although many of us were raised with the idea that needing help is a sign of weakness, in truth, asking for help when we need it is a sign of bravery. After all, it says in Pirkei Avos; “Eizehu gibor? Hakovesh es yitzro.”  And we can only begin learning to control our yetzer when it's our true selves,  rather than the dark echoes of the past, guiding us.

Fruits of Her Labor published December 11, Binah magazine

Title: Fruits of Her Labor

Subtitle: Radish rhapsody

Byline: Debbie Shapiro

Lead in:

Text

Friday morning: my hands were still sticky from kneading the challos and I was just about to place the dough back into the well-greased bowl and set it on the counter to rise. The first batch of onion cookies –my husband's favorite – were in the oven, and I was waiting for them to finish baking so that I could fulfill the mitzvah of tasting the food l'kavod Shabbos kodesh – and sit down with a cup of steaming hot coffee and a magazine while doing it.

Instead, the phone rang and I quickly wiped my doughy hands on the nearest towel and ran to pick it up before my answering machine. "Boker tov, Bubby. This is Rochie." I could hear the smile in my granddaughter's voice and almost see the mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

"Oh, Rochie," I answered, "How's everything?" I could sense that she was plotzing to tell me something.

"Mommy bought us a planter, and we planted some vegetables, right?" This was the first I heard about it, but I was all ears. She continued, "Well, the seed grew into a plant and now, b'kitzur, we have radishes."

"Oh." I waited for her to continue.

"So now, well, can I please speak to Zaidy. I have a...” she giggled in excitement and then continued in a very slow, grownup sounding voice, "I need to ask Zaidy a halachic she’eilah."

"Okay, I'll call Zaidy right now."

I went into my husband's study and, handing him the telephone said, "There's a young woman on the phone with a she’eilah. It's very important." I emphasized the word she’eilah, saying it very slowly so that Rochie would hear.

I watched my husband's expression turn from perplexed to serious to a huge Cheshire-cat-sized grin. In a very rabbinical voice he started peppering our twelve year old granddaughter with questions: "Where were the radishes planted?" "Ahh, was the planter made out plastic or was it earthenware?" "Plastic, so is there a hole on the bottom?" "Where was the planter? In the window? On top of the sill? Resting on the metal bars?"

"Ask her if the bars overlook a garden or the downstairs neighbor's porch…" I whisper, glad that I had paid attention to Rabbi Neuwirth, shlita, our Halachah teacher, when he taught us the halachos of terumos and maaseros.

"Ahah," I heard my husband respond. "I have to give this some thought. I'll call you back in a few minutes." Despite his serious tone, I could catch a hint of laughter.

Ten minutes later my husband walked into the kitchen and handed me the phone. "It's for you, Bubby," he said. His eyes sparkled with that special glint of nachas that is unique to grandparents.

"Bubby, there are three radishes."

"Three radishes," I repeated. "How nice."

"Three radishes. That's one for Mommy, one for Tatty, and one for you and Zaidy."

I could feel my eyes fill with tears. "Radishes are Zaidy's favorite vegetable. I'll put it in his salad."

A few days later – it was on my birthday -- my son came over to do some desperately needed repairs and give us our radish. There was a tiny slice missing. "Ah, this must be where she took off the terumos and maasaros," I said.

My son broke out in a huge grin. His face was shining. It was my birthday, and I had received the best present a grandmother could ever ask for – a tiny radish with a slice missing.